


Twilight Time {or Bacon Sandwiches in the Kitchen}

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [13]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Love, Slightly Smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 21:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14144670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: Her hands wander across his belly, up and down his ribs. One hand finds its way underneath his shirt and undershirt to warm skin. The other hand curls around his hip. That hand stays above his clothes but moves in lazy circles, on his lower belly and then farther down. Things start to happen, and the arm around his waist tightens. She fits herself around his back, cheek pressed to his shoulder blade. Nix grins even though she can’t see.“What’re you doing?”“Me? Nothing.”“Liar,” he answers. “Who else would I be talking to?” he adds as an afterthought.





	Twilight Time {or Bacon Sandwiches in the Kitchen}

Nix did his best thinking at night; that’s what everyone had always said. Rissa said that if it weren’t for children and schedules, she would be happy to be up half the night and miss most of the next morning. Neither one of them was overly concerned about what the neighbors would think of two people who’d sleep in every single day if allowed. But alas, children and schedules don’t allow for parents to be night-creatures, at least not without leaving them sleep-deprived and irritable.

But every now and again, everything aligns. Children fall asleep easily and early, and the night hours stretch out, welcoming and friendly, in front of you.

It’s still winter, but the air carries the possibility of spring. There is still snow, but it is melting, and the air is crisp, not knife-sharp and ready find your wrists in the space between your coat and your gloves. It’s raining, not snowing. It’s warm inside, the babies tucked in and rosy-cheeked under their blankets, and the drops coursing down the windows make it cozy. The clock chimes once softly, marking the half-hour.

Nix is frying bacon. Their stove is gas, as Rissy says she likes to see what she’s cooking with. The kitchen is black and white, with subway tile backsplashes. The round dark-wood pedestal table where they eat breakfast gleams mellowly, tucked away in its nook. Only the one light is on; Nix can see himself reflected in the dark window pane, standing at the stove in the latter half of the second hour of the day. He enjoys this sometimes, doing these mundane things he never did growing up. It feels like a declaration, a tiny rebellion.

He thinks of his own father, murmuring, see, I’m nothing like you. Nix’s eyes fall on the half-full glass at his elbow. He shrugs and shakes his head. Well, I’m different enough that it matters, anyway.

He uses a meat fork to transfer his bacon to a plate. It’s tangled together. This is the proper way to cook bacon at night; neat perpendicular strips are for the morning, just throw it in the pan otherwise. There’s freshly toasted bread and brown sauce in the refrigerator. All right here in his own kitchen in his own home where he anything he needs is in his reach.

He’s putting it all together, making two sandwiches, one for himself and one for Rissy, who’s sprawled out on the couch in the other room, bare feet swinging and the back of her dress rucked up far enough that he can guess her underwear are blue.

He wants to go in there, turn on the radio, and pillow his head on the small of her back. The evening was hectic and dinner was rushed; Nix was late home, Richie was clamoring for stories as soon as Nix walked in the door, poor Emma was cutting both cuspids and she was cranky with it. The telephone rang and a call from Blanche followed, both simple and complicated the way things often are between siblings. All of it was exhausting. After Nix hung up, he fell asleep in his chair still in his shirt and tie.

When he wakes up, all is quiet, except for his growling stomach. He’s tired in a pleasant way even after his nap, not wanting sleep, but rest. And food, so he left the back room to pad to the kitchen in sock feet, admiring his wife’s legs on the way.

He’s putting the sandwiches on napkins when Rissy tiptoes into the kitchen behind him, silent in her bare feet. He’s whistling, grey flannel trousers and darker grey wool socks. Shirt sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned, and his tie loosened and tucked into his shirt. She watches him, her puckered smile at the little habits that still emerge from time to time.

Her arms slip around his waist. He’s softer than he used to be. His belly is still a plane, but there’s the hint of a curve there now, where she’d once been horrified to see that his abdomen was nearly concave. It had been winter then, too. It was a hurried encounter; they’d been pulling at one another’s clothes, not wasting any of the scant amount of time they had. When all concealing layers were out of the way, their eyes widened in concern. Lew snapped the light off. Afterward, he told her to try to eat more. She told him the same.

Her hands wander across his belly, up and down his ribs. One hand finds its way underneath his shirt and undershirt to warm skin. The other hand curls around his hip. That hand stays above his clothes but moves in lazy circles, on his lower belly and then farther down. Things start to happen, and the arm around his waist tightens. She fits herself around his back, cheek pressed to his shoulder blade. Nix grins even though she can’t see.

“What’re you doing?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“Liar,” he answers. “Who else would I be talking to?” he adds as an afterthought.

“I don’t know.” The words fall from her mouth softly. Her fingers move and Nix’s hips twitch. Rissy giggles and blatantly, shamelessly gropes him.

“Leave me alone. I’m trying to make you a snack.”

“But I just--” She cuts herself off. “It’s just so big, Lew.” She makes a purring sound and Nix scoffs. “And you make me feel so good--”

“Are you trying to flatter me into sleeping with you?”

“No, I’m stating a fact.” She presses her lips to his shoulder blade. “Lew, come lay down with me.” He can feel her breathing, pressed flush to his back. He shudders at what her hand is doing and makes a plaintive, needy mewl when she stops. “Please, Lewis, please.” Her hand finds his and she tugs at it until he turns to face her.

“Please?”

She takes a step towards him, raising up on tiptoe to kiss him, and she walks backwards down the hall, past the stairs, past the room filled with bookshelves crammed full of books. She leads him into the back room, where the fire is burning low and the huge paned window faces the backyard swimming pool. The wide sofa is soft brown leather, and Rissy’s cashmere blanket is thrown over the back of it. What transpires there makes Nix forget about his sandwiches.

* * *

 

He remembers them afterwards, when his other appetites are sated and his stomach starts complaining again. He walks through his house in unhurried nakedness, bringing the plates back to his wife so they can eat in front of the fire. Rissy leers at him on his way out and on his way back in. He sits beside her on the carpet, back against the sofa, and she winks at him.

Nix and Rissy eat, licking their fingers and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands. They fire crackles, Rissy sighs appreciatively and Nix pokes her. She smacks him and tucks her blanket around them both, covering their laps. She finishes her sandwich first, and Nix wipes a smear of brown sauce from her bottom lip with his thumb.

“Thank you, Lew.” Rissy’s head lays comfortably against his shoulder. “For dinner and a show.”

“You’re welcome.” He shoves his last bite into his mouth. “You know, I never could have done that when I was growing up. Too many people around.”

“It’s not like we could have walked around naked, either, and it was just us.”

“No, I suppose you couldn’t.” He swallows his whiskey, Rissy sips at the sweet white wine that Lew teases her about.

“Tell me about when you were a little boy, Lew.”

“When I was seven, I came in third place in a model yacht regatta in Central Park. It seems silly now, but I was so proud of myself.” His smile is wistful. “And we used to go see the shipyards sometimes. You know, far enough away that we wouldn’t get dirty. And so we wouldn’t be surrounded by the riff-raff.” He pinches her just below her ribs and she pushes his hand away. “But it was fascinating, the ships, the people, even if we were so far away.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” Nix yawns and stretches. He puts his hand on the nape of Rissy’s neck, hiding the suck mark there with his thumb. “Then I went to school in California. Oh, Rissy, the beach there. I liked school, I was pretty good at it, too. My family was bicoastal; we went everywhere. All kinds of places.” He takes another long swallow, admiring the butterscotch liquid in the thick-bottomed tumbler. “I thought everyone lived like that.”

“So you never milked cows before school? Or weeded tomatoes after?”

“No.”

“Hazel had to help me. I could hardly keep mine alive.”

“That’s why we have a gardener. But no, no cows. Formal dinners, parties, nannies, _help_ , yes.” His eyes roll heavenward. “But I played in the dirt, too, like any other little boy. And then I’d have to get upstairs before anyone saw me and I’d hide my clothes so I wouldn’t get in trouble.”

“I was eleven, twelve the first time I got drunk. God, Rissy, they were pissed. It’s one thing to let your kid have sips of wine with dinner, right? That’s just continental. But when he ends up singing at the top of his lungs in front of your invited guests in their evening wear, it’s not amusing. The next day, I thought I was dying.”

“What did they do?”

“My father yelled at me, my mother wouldn’t talk to me, Blanche laughed. Mary--she was one of the maids--gave me aspirin and water.”

“Lew, who was the first girl you kissed?”

“Her name was Alice. I was thirteen, and it was after a school dance, and she was a hair taller than I was.”

“What about the first girl you--”

“You don’t want to hear about that.”

“Yes, I do.”

He sighs. “Fine. Audrey. I didn’t love her, but I liked her a lot. I was seventeen and so was she. It was over the summer, and when the summer was over, well, you know how it goes.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Oh, that’s right. You were a virgin bride on your wedding day.” He’s just poking gentle fun, he winks at her.

She shakes her head at him. “And did you do it all over the place?”

“You mean like up against buildings, in fields or greenhouses, or on the beach? In the snow? On the counter with people in the next room? No, that was just with you. I mean I wasn’t any kind of angel, but…” Nix yawns and stretches again, tucking Rissy against his side. “…that’s the thing about those big houses. Lots of rooms to sneak off to.”

“As long as you kept your clothes on in the halls?” He nods in response. “We were shameless, weren’t we, Lew? I thought I was such a good girl until I met you.”

“You’re still a good girl, sweetheart,” he whispers into her hair, then he kisses the crown of her head and grins. “Besides, do you really think we’re any better now? The house is ours, yes, but we still do all manner of things.”

Rissy shakes her head, “You made an honest woman of me, anyway.” She leans closer into him, her bare skin sliding against Nix’s flank he tucks the blanket closer around them both. She shifts to pillow her head on his thigh, tracing patterns in his hair. She presses her lips there and yawns. “Tell me more, Lew.”

“We used to go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I hated the way the incense smelled. I liked the singing and listening to the Latin, but it was so hard to sit still so long.”

“I bet you were cute in your short pants.”

“Oh, I was.” He pauses. “They always made sure Blanche and I looked the part. Appearances are important. I was a good kid, a good student, but it wasn’t ever enough, Rissy. They were busy, and the people who took care of me were paid to do it. They loved me, but still.”

Rissy wonders if he’s talking about his parents or their employees. Sometimes she wonders if Lew misses the life he grew up with. Although money is something they will never have to worry about, they try to keep life normal for their children. Someone comes in to clean, and someone comes in to cook a few evenings each week, but Rissy makes dinner, too. No one else lives with them. They have friends over for dinner, but there aren’t any evening gowns involved. Still, she sometimes worries that he might find something lacking in the life he has now. “Do you ever miss all that?”

“No, not at all. You saw the house I grew up in. It’s like a damn museum. Here? This feels like home, sweetheart. I want our kids to be kids. I want them to have what I didn’t.” There is so much that he can’t explain about the way he grew up, how different life is when money is not an object, how one can be rich and poor at once. Thus, it’s difficult to find a way to tell her how much better the balance they’ve struck is. He doesn’t have words, so Nix pulls her hand up to his face to kiss it. Rissy palms his cheek, fingertips resting on the tender place below his ear. “And Rissy--I wasn’t perfect, but I couldn’t have been that bad--until I hit fourteen or so.”

“What happened when you were fourteen? Or so?”

“Funny thing, I started having my own opinions.”

“Oh.”

“And then I got older and I didn’t take all those sacred social conventions as seriously as they would have liked.”

“You couldn’t have been that bad, Lew.”

“No, but I wasn’t even trying any more. In fact, I was openly antagonistic.”

“You? No.”

“Oh, I was.” He sighs, lets his eyes shut. “And then there was Kathy. I was at that age. You’re supposed to get married. I don’t know, Rissy. I liked her, I suppose I thought I loved her. Hell, maybe I did, in a way. She certainly loved being a Nixon.”

“Then what?” Rissy’s voice is soft. This pulls at her heart.

“Well, Hitler invaded Poland and Pearl Harbor happened. Oh, and I met this girl. Cute. Big brown eyes and big--” He reaches for her under the blanket, cupping her breast and making it tremble. When his fingers graze her nipple, Rissy laughs and smacks his hand. Nix pushes her hair back from her face. “She changed everything.”

“Funny, I met a man with dark eyes and a huge…sarcastic streak.” Nix pinches her again, she whimpers and he rubs the spot in gentle circles. “He changed everything, too.”

“Do you remember the first time I kissed you?”

“Of course I do.”

“You know, I almost took you right there, in that alley.”

“I know you did.” She blushes, even after all this time. “I probably would have let you.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think there was any ‘probably’ about it. But your face, when I put you down, and I told you I couldn’t do it. I felt so bad. All I meant was not there, not in the street. But you looked up at me with those big, needy eyes, and you looked so hurt. I wanted to make it nice for you. And give you a chance to come to your senses.”

Her expression softens. “Lew don’t you know? I didn’t know it could be like that, that it’s possible to love someone that much. And look at you, you’re so…”

“I’m so what?”

“There’s too much to list. I don’t know where to start.”

“We already did it. Are you trying to flatter me into bed again?”

“Yeah, I am. Every night for the rest of my life.”

So just a little while later, Rissy takes the blanket and their clothing into the laundry room and Nix puts the fire out. The air is chilly on their bare skin, but it’s warm under the sheets and blankets. Maybe respectable parents of two small children, home-owning adults, would put on pajamas, underwear, at least. But no, Rissy lies on her back and Nix lies on his belly. His head is on her shoulder and his face is in her neck. One of his legs is thrown over both of hers, where it lays there heavily. Rissy cups the back of Nix’s head, holding him in place. Her other hand rests on his scapula, where his wings would be, where his harness used to chafe.


End file.
